The Invisible Beautiful

Cold rain washed across the windshield as we drove home that day. The wipers working over time as a dark cloud passed over, releasing tiny pellets of hail. Our seven-year-old twin grandsons, seated in the back seat, their voices raised above the din of the wipers, the deluge of sleet. 

"The Easter bunny isn't real," blond-haired grandson stated matter-of-factly. 

"Yes he is!" Brown-haired grandson exclaimed.

"No, he isn't, everyone knows he's fiction."

"Then how do the eggs get in our room?" 

"I don't know, but the bunny isn't real. Just fiction. Everybody knows that."

Silence clung to the corners of the car. A question mark dangled from the ceiling.  Swish, swish, the wipers swept across the window. I inhaled deep, afraid to let go of the Easter bunny, sandwiched between truth and innocence, I kept silent, let them sit in the question. "He doesn't wear clothes, he can't be real, everyone knows he's fiction." I felt the fluffy tail slipping away. "Besides," blond-boy continued, "Jesus rose from the dead, the Easter bunny can't know about that!" I swallowed a slice of grace, gently entered the debate. And life-pumping words like a cross, empty grave, heaven, love, they spilled all over the car, tracing the seats, the hearts with non-fictional grace, the bunny left behind, at least for a moment. Releasing a cavernous, grateful, grandmotherly breath, we continued on home, the crunching sound of pretzels from the back seat drowning out the ebbing rain. 

Later, thoughts of that other grandson swirled in my mind, much like a pastel-colored Easter egg, the kind you decorate, make pretty so the Easter bunny can hide them for you outside.

I thought of that three-year-old grandson back in Virginia, back when we visited the Museum of the Bible last week. How he stepped into a room, took one look at the man up front, the one telling us about synagogues and life back when Jesus walked the town, and this boy, he exclaimed in his tiny wise voice: "That's Jesus! He knows me!" Picking my heart up from the cobbled floor, I ruffled his hair, then kissed the top of his head, letting him believe this man truly was Jesus, not a character named David. 

Today I drive past a local church, see a sign out front announcing an Easter egg hunt coming up this Saturday. And I get this sudden vision, clear and pristine it is, marinate in it until I reach home. I see a field under a canopy of azure blue sky, vivid blue bonnets cover patches of the ground. I see a plethora of assorted colored bunnies dressed in all sorts of fashion, some wearing bright pink tutus, others donning black bow-ties and elfin dinner jackets. Some wore no clothes at all and that seemed OK. Thousands of children raced around, appearing oblivious to all those cheering bunnies speaking hidden words, clapping happy for the kids. The children wore different colored skin, spoke varied languages, and that seemed OK too. They gleefully ran about the open field, behind a few trees, searching for hidden plastic eggs chock-full of surprises. That's when I notice Him. He is walking about the wide outdoor space, freely, joyfully, kindly, and nobody appears to see Him. He pats each child in turn on the head saying, I see you, I love you, I know you, I died for you. The beaming sun puts on a smiley face. He doesn't stop until each child is hugged by Grace.

I tuck this moment way deep inside, down in that soul place embracing radical mercy, the place that knows that in order to see the invisible Beautiful, you must humbly, joyfully, dare to believe in the wondrous impossible.

#Itisfinished #Hewonthebattle #Outrageouslove

Even The Birds Of The Air

I worry. This practice of worry travels along with me like an old school friend, chatting it up every so often, reminding me that I am still a worrier. Will the grandkids be safe in school? How many more people can move to Portland in one decade? What about gun control, please, please let's get this one right.

Look at the birds. They don't plant or harvest or store food in barns, for your heavenly Father feeds them.

 And aren't you far more valuable to Him than they are? Can all your worries add a single moment to your life?

 There is much to be afraid of lately, the anxious thoughts and what-if's swirl in the mind like an upside down snow globe. One missing the beautiful scene inside. The unthinkable becomes reality and you want it to change and your knees get bruised from the kneeling and can you really hear our cries?

And then He gets creative, sending you cryptic love letters, like a husband who buys extra bird food just in time for a February snow storm. A dream that sticks to your skin for days, you can't wash it off no matter how hard you scrub, leaving a lingering scent of hope. And like an unsolved jigsaw puzzle, the kind that cause tiny beads of sweat to pool at the brows, He gets kind of loud like and slips the remaining tiny puzzle pieces into position. I bet He is grinning.

 I hear your voice now, in the dream, in my Bible, those red letter words dancing a graceful waltz, those precious birds all stuffed and well fed. I hear your soft and gentle voice stilling those piercing worry thoughts, your wild and crazy heart beat thrumming against the cares of the world. I hear your voice now, gentling the tilting world with your radical, relentless grace.

Be still. I've got this.
~God~

And you start all over again